Build You a World
by Elinor D
Summary: Ten years after the sinking Rose finds herself confronted with possibilities she never imagined as an unlikely friendship begins to change, forcing her to make a decision: move on or keep living in a dream? But what if her dream isn't as far off as she thinks? Updated!
1. Chapter 1

_Santa Monica 1922_

Cal's shoes made a satisfying _clopk_ against the freshly swept sidewalk. He walked quickly, hands in his pocket, hat pushed back to reveal the smile playing about his lips. The smells of popcorn, sugar, and salt water mingled in the air. He breathed deeply and let his eyes roam across the crowd that was already forming on the pier. According to his watch it was only three in the afternoon, and yet couples were already strolling hand-in-hand, oblivious to everything but the other's eyes. Children ran about in search of a few more pennies for another game. It wasn't enough to simply say most of the people here belonged to a different social group. The pier was its own world, and it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. But that was an understatement; it wasn't just the pier that was its own world. There were dozens of worlds in Santa Monica alone, never mind in the rest of Los Angeles. It was fascinating, in a way, to wonder what it would have been like to be born here, or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, to just have been born to a typical middle-class family. What would growing up as a member of the bourgeoise have changed about him? If nothing else, it would have given him a definite set of goals to strive for.

Cal's smile wavered. He turned his gaze away from the crowd. No, instead, he was born at the very top of American society. The only thing higher than his family, with its fortune dating only as far back as 1872 although his grandfather had steadfastly claimed otherwise until everyone finally began to believe him, was those few remaining scraps of nobility and what passed for royalty these days. Russia didn't even have a royal family anymore. The few survivors of the Revolution were scattered, clinging to their former dignity, while the Imperial family had been shot in a basement, though of course, there were those who told other stories. The world was changing right under his feet, and only a blind man wouldn't be able to see what was coming. Soon the American aristocracy he loved so dearly wouldn't even exist. It would be replaced by hordes of tasteless nouveau riche. So perhaps, he mused, turning the last corner, it was best he had gotten out when he had. Better to disappear quietly to parts unknown then to suffer the humiliation of being usurped—though, he had to admit, he hadn't left with that end in mind.

His knocked was answered by a brisk, "It's unlocked." He paused before stepping inside and smoothed his hair. It was still jet black, only now it fell a little more freely beneath his hat. He straightened his tie and ran a thumb over the buttons on his vest. He knew they were all buttoned perfectly, but it was reassuring to check just the same.

"I thought you'd never get here," Rose said over her shoulder. She carried a stack of unframed paintings in her arms. "Fine greeting," he said, ignoring the slight roll of her eyes. "Do you want help with those?"

"Oh no, I'm fine. I'm just taking them into the bedroom. You can help me carry the bookcase out here, though," she called.

"What are you going to do with them in here?"

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Hang them up, of course."

"Well, yes, I assumed that, but don't you think you have enough paintings in here?" He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his middle. "If you aren't careful you won't be able to find your way out." She ignored him. "Doesn't it make it difficult to sleep in here?" he continued. "That, for instance," he said, nodding at a Picasso piece, "Can't possibly induce pleasant dreams."

"My dreams are perfect. You never did understand Picasso," Rose said absently, leaning a painting against the wall opposite the bed. "But then again," she added, stepping back to view the result, "You never did have much taste in art."

"I have taste. This just isn't what I would call 'art.'"

"And what would you call art? Renaissance paintings?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I'd certainly prefer a few Da Vinci's to the scribblings of Picasso. The man paints like a drunk child having a nightmare."

Rose laughed. "You really were born at the wrong time, weren't you? First it's penniless artists destroying the craft and all these naughty books getting published about noblewomen having affairs with Yorkshire peasants, then it's the War killing all the empires, then it's the Nineteenth Amendment—" She studied his face. "Your world has just been crumbling since the day you were born, hasn't it?"

Cal couldn't help but wonder if hearing the words "penniless artist" spoken aloud had the same effect on her as it did on him. He pulled his gaze away from hers. It couldn't possibly; something would give her away if it did, he told himself. "I wouldn't go that far," he said lightly. "Things were going very well in the 90s."

"You know, they say the 20s will be like that," she said. "An endless round of parties and quests for more clothes."

Cal laughed shortly. "The 20s are already boring me. The art and literature is getting worse, and so are the clothes."

"Do you mean to say," Rose's eyebrow arched, "You don't enjoy the sight of women going about in short skirts?" She pulled the last few books from the bookcase. "I wouldn't have named you, of all people, as an upholder of common morality," she said dryly.

Cal's head spun from the implications of her remark. "Common morality and personal morality," he said, choosing his words carefully, "are not the same thing." He grasped on end of the bookcase as she grasped the other. Together, they carried it down the hall and into the front room. "No," she said. "I suppose in your case they're not." Her blue-green eyes were hard but inscrutable. Was she accusing him? Or was she seeing how he would react? And in either case, why? After three years, weren't they beyond that?

"So," he said brightly, "Why the sudden need to move the furniture around?"

Her eyes softened. "Oh, I just felt like changing things," she replied. She grabbed a handful of books and began arranging them on the top shelf. "I've lived here for five years, and I just realized this morning I've had everything in exactly the same place the whole time. I couldn't take it anymore. It was either this or leave, though, I'm not sure I won't," she added, more to herself than to him.

He kept his voice level. "Leave? And go where?"

"I don't know," she said with a shrug. "Anywhere. I've never seen the mountains on this side of the country. Maybe I'll go there." A new light came into her eyes. "Maybe I'll go to Mexico. It's supposed to be beautiful there, or maybe Canada."

"Canada is an icy wasteland, and Mexico is no place for a woman. You'd do better to find a more populated destination that carries less of a chance of being murdered."

Her mouth thinned slightly. "I think I could handle things, and when did you become so concerned about what I do?" Before he could answer she added, "It doesn't matter anyway. If I went I would have to give up the apartment and find a place to store my things or get rid of them."

"Give up the apartment? Why?"

"Well, who knows how long I'd be gone. I don't have the money to pay the rent in advance indefinitely, and what if I decide not to come back? It would just be a waste." She dropped into the chair next to the window. Curls that had escaped the knot at the base of her neck framed her face. Cal watched her from his chair across the room. Her feet were bare. She wore no make-up. The old man's shirt and pants she wore hung loosely on her frame, obscuring the curve of her waist and swell of her breasts. She had always been fair, but there was a new paleness in her cheeks. The hollows beneath her eyes were dark, as though from not sleeping. Her hands, resting idly on the chair arms, were thinner than the last time he saw her, just a few days before.

_She isn't eating enough_, he decided. _Or sleeping enough_. Asking would be a waste of time. She would just brush off the question with a shrug and change of subject or a sarcastic retort about his own health. He was too busy with his thoughts to notice her eyes on him. "Are you still having the dreams?" she asked quietly.

"What?" He quickly recovered himself. "Oh, the war dreams. No, I haven't been having them as often lately."

She tilted her head to the side. "What other dreams are you having?"

"Well, aside from the usual ones about you, none," he said jokingly. She rolled her eyes. "You don't dream about me," she said. "And if you do, I'll thank you to stop. I know enough about what goes on in your head."

….

Jack squinted against the evening sun as he stepped off the train. The voices around him mingled together, their greetings and good-byes mixing into one soothing hum. The air was filled with the smell of coal, horses, and the sweat of the crowd. It wasn't a particularly pleasant smell as far as most people were concerned, but Jack had always liked it. Every train station he had ever been to smelled the same; it was one constant in a life full of changes. He walked slowly through the crowd, taking in everything. Later, before he fell asleep, he would try to draw the images he remembered best.

A cool breeze blew his hair back. He shifted the weight of his bag from one shoulder to the other and slipped his free hand into his pocket. Although he walked with the easy stride of someone who knows where he's going but doesn't carry when he arrives, the truth was he had no idea where he was going. It had been twelve years since he left Santa Monica, and he doubted if the few people he'd made friends with back then still remembered him—if they were even still around. On the bright side, despite his somewhat bedraggled appearance, this time he had more than $2.50 to his name. Carefully folded at the bottom of his bag was $200 in cash, the payment for the last painting he sold before leaving San Francisco. He hadn't intended to come back to Los Angeles, let alone Santa Monica, but when he stepped up to the ticket counter he discovered there was only one more train leaving that day. Without a second thought he decided it was a sign.

His stomach suddenly gave a loud growl, bringing him back to the tasks at hand. It would be dark before he knew it, and finding a room for the night would be easier while the sun was still up. After that he would let himself think about dinner.

….

Rose sighed as the door clicked shut behind Cal. She pushed her curls away from her face and began collecting the dinner dishes. She had a perfectly fine table in the kitchen, but every time Cal came to dinner they ended up sitting on the floor around the coffee table. It was rather ironic considering the types of dinners they started out having together. A yawn escaped as she poured the remains of the coffee down the sink. It was wasteful, but so was saving it for the next morning only to decide not to drink it. She only kept the coffee for him; if it had been up to her they would have just drank milk or water, but even in his new state Cal rejected beverages like that. If he could not drink champagne with his dinner then he would settle for coffee, which he secretly preferred.

These dinners were exhausting, though Rose couldn't say why exactly. Cal had a tendency to linger long after the last bite had been eaten, rationing his coffee into ever smaller sips, as if the thought of leaving were just too much for him. Spending most of the afternoon, for he always arrived well before dinner time, and the entire evening with him left her craving solitude. Their conversations rarely ventured beyond sarcastic jabs and cultural or current event discussions. Keeping their emotions at bay was what left Rose exhausted, guarding herself against any statements which might lead to something best left untouched. They hadn't discussed the past since right after his arrival, and even then details had been avoided.

"_I'll help you,_" _Rose said. _

"_I don't want your pity," Cal replied, a scowl in his voice. _

"_What you want doesn't really matter anymore," she shot back. "You need my help whether you like it or not. That is, unless you prefer your father's solution—" _

"_No!" Cal avoided her eyes. "No," he said, quietly this time. "I think you may be onto something." _

_She smiled. "Let's discuss terms." _

She slipped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor. Yawning again, she quickly removed the pins from her hair. It fell down her back, longer than ever. There really was no need to keep spending so much time with him. His father hadn't spoken to him in at least a year, so there was no danger there anymore. All their business communication was done through secretaries and letters. Rose justified it to herself by saying he still needed one friend who wasn't waiting to profit off him, but she knew that wasn't really the reason. As shameful as it was, she kept spending time with him because she enjoyed being around him. He didn't need her anymore. He had just as much money as he had ever had, if not more. He was involved in a half dozen projects in L.A. in addition to his share of the Hockley family businesses. He hadn't yet joined the elite society of L.A., but, she reminded herself, that was no excuse. It was his choice to remain on the periphery of things, and she was—What exactly was she doing?

Rose sighed and pulled the blanket over her. "I don't know what I'm doing."

…

Cal whistled softly. The tune matched his pace. He smiled to himself as the evening played back over in his head. Rose had been lovely despite the tiredness around her eyes. _What she needs,_ he thought, _really is a change of scenery. She's right about that, but she'll go about it all wrong if left to arrange things herself. _Of course, she would never accept a gift like that from him, not under any circumstances. There wasn't a way to simply offer her a trip to wherever she chose as a mere friend. A gesture like that would require a more permanent bond, but the days of such a bond existing between them were long over.

But did they have to be? Cal stopped at the corner and waited for the light to change. It wasn't a completely absurd idea. They were good friends. They could talk intelligently to one another, a trait which he had once thought would never be desirable in a relationship with a woman, and he wanted her. It was at that moment that Cal finally admitted it to himself. His attraction to Rose hadn't faded away, buried under friendship. It had just changed. Suddenly he was overcome by the force of his desire for her. He didn't notice the other man walk up beside him. "It could work," he murmured.

Jack glanced at him, intrigued. His eyes widened. It couldn't be, and yet, he was already sure, it was. The hair was a little looser, but it was the same. The eyes were the same. The build was the same. The clothes were obviously expensive, but even without them the air of importance was enough to make Cal recognizable in rags. Jack didn't know whether to turn his head and pretend not to see him or to make his presence known. It was a toss-up between avoiding a scene and enjoying a scene. He was saved the need to make a decision by the light changing. Cal briskly crossed the street, staring straight ahead, as if he were looking at something beyond his surroundings. Jack just stood there, momentarily unsure where he was going and why he was going there.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Please review!**

"_I've missed you," Rose whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. Jack kissed her hand. "I know," he said. Her skin tingled under his touch. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. "Where were you?" she asked. He wound her curls around his fingers. "Don't worry about that," he said. "I'm here now." _

**Brrriiinnnggg**

Rose shot up. She grabbed the alarm clock and twisted its knob to Off. With a groan she flopped back onto the pillows. Sunlight streamed through the window next to her bed. It was already a beautiful day; even with the window closed she could hear birds singing. And yet all she wanted to do was pull the blanket over her head and go back to sleep. She lay still, concentrating all her energy on hearing Jack's voice again, but it was a wasted effort. In her dreams she could still hear him perfectly, but when she was awake all she could manage was a few words. The sound of him saying her name, all the ways he'd said it, was the easiest to recall.

She choked back tears. "I'm losing him."

But wouldn't it be better to let the memories fade? To remember the story but keep only the most vivid impressions of it? How else would she ever move on? It's what he would have wanted, but then again, hadn't she done what he asked? Wasn't she living the life she wanted?

"I've given up," Rose said, shocked to hear the words said aloud. "I haven't done anything I meant to."

…

"What do you mean—" Cal's grip on the phone receiver tightened. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I understand. Of course." He took a quick, deep breath. "Perhaps we could arrange another way—Of course not!" he cried. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, slowly this time. "I do understand," he said evenly. "It's just that—Right. Yes, I see. No, that won't be a problem. Fine. Call my secretary when you have the details." With a frustrated groan he slammed the receiver into the cradle. A sharp pain filled the space behind his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands.

"Sir—"

"Not now, Stevens."

"I'm sorry to bother you, but—"

Cal's voice hardened. "I said not now, Stevens. I have a splitting headache. Whatever it is can wait."

"I really don't think it can." Stevens, a slim, impeccably dressed man answered calmly. His grey eyes took in Cal's slumped shoulders and tense jaw. He hadn't seen him this upset in months, but he pressed on all the same. "The workers at the 14th street facility are threatening to strike again."

Cal swore under his breath. "Not that again," he said. "Don't tell me they're still not satisfied." He ran a hand through his hair. "What more do they want? I gave them everything they asked for last time. Wasn't that enough?"

"Well, sir," Steven said, "it appears not."

Cal shot him a withering look. "This is no time for jokes." He stood up. "My family will be here next week."

"Family?"

"Yes, Stevens, my family. You shouldn't look so shocked. I do have one."

"I know that," Stevens said, forcing his long face into impassivity. "They've never come out here before, have they?" Cal shook his head. "This is the first time. My father's secretary just called to give me the good news." He picked up a glass from the bar opposite his desk. "This is just what I need," he said drily. "This insurrection will spread throughout the company if we don't figure out how to stop it today, and my father will be here to see it." Cal uncorked a bottle of brandy and poured a generous drink. "Stevens?"

"Sir?"

"Why is there no ice?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because it's not yet noon, and I hadn't thought it necessary to restock the bar yet?"

Cal stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. Stevens eyed him curiously. "Sir, are you quite alright?" he asked. Cal nodded, still chuckling. He took a sip of the warm brandy and grimaced at the taste. "I apologize," he said. I seem to have gotten a little hysterical." He set the glass aside. "Have they said what they want?"

"They want paid time off."

"What the hell for?" Cal exclaimed.

"To give them time to travel and enjoy a bit of leisure," Stevens replied. "It seems many of them have decided they would like to enjoy some of the, ah, privileges which the moneyed classes enjoy with such regularity."

"Well, they won't get it," Cal said. "What kind of absurd demand is that? Pay them to do nothing? I'll be damned if I do."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not sure you can simply—"

"Stevens, I can do whatever I choose," Cal said coldly. His dark eyes held a quiet intensity. "I won't have things dictated to me by a mob of unwashed illiterates. They didn't come up with these ideas on their own. Someone has been stirring up trouble, and we're going to find out who."

"And then what?" Stevens asked. Without giving Cal time to answer he continued, "Let's say we do find the core agitators, what can we do with them? It isn't illegal to organize workers, nor is it illegal to strike. If they, and I'm certain they are, Communists, well that isn't illegal either—"

"Yet," Cal muttered.

Stevens went on as though he didn't hear him. "There aren't many options open to you," he said. "Labor agitators and Communists may not be highly favored by the general public, but as far as your lower level employees are concerned, anything we do to these men will just make them into martyrs."

Cal turned to face the window. The street below was full of the usual mid-afternoon traffic—delivery boys, taxis, office girls hurrying back from late lunches—but Cal saw none of it. His head was filled with images of burning warehouses and broken glass. His cheeks burned at the memory of the meeting that resolved the strike two years before, at his humiliation as one by one he gave in to their demands. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We aren't giving them what they want again," he said quietly.

"If you'll remember, last time—"

"I don't care what happened last time. We'll find another way, Stevens. Do you understand?"

Stevens nodded. "Yes."

"Good." Cal swept past him. "And my father doesn't hear of this," he added. "The last thing I need is him trying to run things over my shoulder." He slipped into his jacket. "Especially when I have something more important to worry about."

….

With a weary sigh Rose pulled the last pin from her hair and shook it loose. Her curls fell over her shoulders easily, as though they too were glad the day was nearly over. Quickly, she turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. She smiled as she set off, stretching her stiff legs with each step. The sun was still high in the sky, but the day's heat was finally beginning to dissipate. Of course, she reminded herself, anything was better than the stifling office. The windows on the first floor, where she and the other women worked, remained closed all day, and by noon the air was thick.

Rose threw her head back as a cool wind began to blow. She spread her arms, heedless of the curious glances she received, and just stood there with her eyes closed. For a moment she could almost feel Jack's hands on hers, almost feel the caress of his fingertips. "Rose?" She gasped, startled out of the memory. Cal eyed her with thinly veiled concern mixed with amusement. "What were you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just enjoying the fresh air. What are you doing here?" she added, her voice rising slightly.

"I came to ask you to dinner," he said.

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "Of course."

He watched her expectantly. "Did you think I had something else in mind?"

"No," she replied, carefully studying his features. It was as if she were seeing him anew. "I just wasn't expecting to see you today. Isn't this the evening you dine with the Mintons?"

"Ordinarily, yes," Cal said. "But if I keep appearing there it will just encourage Daphne."

"And we can't have that," Rose said drily. His mouth thinned. "I'm not interested in her. There's no point in giving her false hope."

"And her vulgar, nouveau riche family has nothing to do with your disinterest?"

"Nothing at all," Cal said. "Now, are we having dinner or not?"

"Oh fine. I am hungry, and it was a terrible day," she said as Cal swept her toward a waiting car. "At the very least I won't have to walk home." Her flippant tone masked the avalanche of emotions within her. Was he the answer? Were his bumbling attempts to change supposed to mean something more to her than they did? Rose couldn't deny he was an attractive man, but since the end of their engagement the thought of having him as a lover had never occurred to her. It was just as well; the idea had never appealed to her. And yet she suddenly found herself stealing glances at his hands.

….

Every time she ate in public Rose felt as though she were back at a high society dinner where everyone was watching her every move, even if, like that night, she were eating in a cheap diner. She had only been momentarily surprised by Cal's choice. Of course he would pick a place like this; it was all part of his attempts to distance himself from the past. As she watched him over the rim of her water glass she wondered why he kept trying to make himself into something he was never meant to be. His eyes darted around the room, as if waiting to be spotted by someone he knew. He eyed the food suspiciously before eating it and tried to examine his glass for spots without her noticing.

"We didn't have to come here," she said.

"It's fine," he said, distracted by what he thought was a stain on the table but was actually just part of the wood grains. "It's different."

"Yes, if by 'different' you mean painfully uncomfortable."

He looked up. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No, but you are."

"I am not. Why would you say that?"

"Cal, you tense up every time a new person walks in," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have insisted we go out for dinner. I thought if we came here it would be less awkward."

"For whom?"

"Well, you," he admitted. Rose stared at him, unsure how to respond. "Because if we went to any of the places I frequent not only would you not blend in at all—"

She wasn't sure where the urge came from, but suddenly she heard herself speaking. "I think that's about enough explaining," she said coolly.

"Rose, don't get angry. You know I didn't mean—"

"No, I know what you meant. I look poor, and you can't risk being seen with me by people who know you."

"Damn it, Rose, that's not—"

"I _am_ poor," she said, her voice quiet but angry. "And that's just fine with me. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way." Her chair squeaked as she pushed it back. He stood up as she did. "Rose—"

"Good night," she spat, turning on her heel and walking away.

Cal threw his napkin down. "Damn it, Rose," he called, hurrying after her. By the time he got outside she was halfway down the street. At the sound of his voice she increased her pace, but she had to stop when she reached the corner. "Let me explain," he said. "What I meant is, I know you aren't part of that world anymore. I know you don't want to be." She pretended not to hear him. He touched her arm. "Rose."

She stiffened; panic surged through her. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to be happening. It was all too much; it was too soon. Everything had been wrong since his sudden appearance; he wasn't supposed to be there. He took a step back. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Take me home, please?" He nodded. "Whatever you want."

Rose felt his eyes on her, felt the weight of his unasked questions. She slumped against the seat, exhausted. _What is wrong with you?_ she thought. _Have you gone insane? It's just Cal. _Her heart skipped a beat. That was the problem. She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. _I should love him. _ The breeze from the open window blew her hair away from her face, bringing with it the scent of saltwater. A dull ache filled the pit of her stomach as Jack's smile flashed before her eyes. _But I love you. _

Cal rubbed the middle of his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was back and spreading. All he'd wanted was an evening with Rose, nothing complicated, just a few hours of looking at her and talking to her. If anyone could make him forget the stress of the day, she could, but now he would be up all night.

…

The walk to her door was silent. "I hope you don't mind, but I'd rather you didn't come in. I'd like to just go to bed," Rose said. As she turned to go inside, he reached out and took her hand. "Rose, there's something I want to tell you."

Rose kept her face impassive. "I think that may not be a good idea," she said.

"No, it probably isn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway," Cal said. He looked down into her eyes. Rose held her breath. His eyes were bright and warm, but they didn't fill the world. His gaze didn't reach to her knees. "I love you," he said. His words hit her like a punch in the stomach. It wasn't supposed to be like this; it wasn't supposed to be with him. "I have to go inside," she said quickly. "I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow." Stunned, he watched her go.

…

Jack drained the last few drops of beer from his glass and set it down with a satisfying _click_. Ted watched him with interest. "You don't feel anything, do you?" he asked, moving to refill the glass. "I'll feel that one," Jack said, waving his friend's hand away. He leaned back in his chair. "So, this is what you do now?"

"Some of the time," Ted replied. "This—" He gestured to the crowded bar. "Is how I pay for what I really do."

"And that is?"

"I'm a labor organizer. I get unions going, educate the workers, do what I can to make strikes successful."

"I never pictured you doing that," Jack said. "When I met you—"

"I was a different person," Ted interrupted. "That was a long time ago, Jack, and you're one to talk. What happened to seeing the world on pennies a day?"

Jack laughed. "What can I say? All it takes is one person to like your work, and then—" He snapped his fingers. "You're sleeping in a real bed every night and waking up without flea bites."

"So what brings you back here, then? Sounds like you were doing just fine in San Francisco."

"I was, but it was time to move on. I'd been there two years. I never meant to stay that long. I came out here to see about leaving America again, go to India this time, maybe." He studied the pile of peanut shells on the table. "Just wanted to come back here first," he said, softly this time.

"Who is she?"

Jack's head shot up. "What?"

"The woman," Ted said. "Who is she?"

"There isn't a woman," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "Everything isn't about that."

"Fine. Whatever you want." Ted leaned forward. "Listen, while you're here, why don't you think about joining me? It wouldn't have to be for long. Leave whenever you want. But I could use a man like you on this new project." Jack began to protest, but Ted ignored him. "Jack, you're good at getting people to listen to you. You make everyone feel like they're your best friend, and that's exactly the kind of man I need if I'm going to help these people win."

Jack cracked open another peanut. "Win what?"

…

Cal slammed the phone down with a muttered curse. Before he could remove his hand, it rang again. "What?" he snapped into the receiver.

"Sir, there's a Miss Dawson here to see you," a crisp, female voice answered.

Cal's shoulders began to slump a little less. "Send her in."

He stood up as the door opened. Rose walked quickly, her eyes solemn. "I'm sorry about last night," she said.

"It's alright. Sit down," he said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite his desk. She shook her head. "No, I don't intend to be here that long." She took a deep, steadying breath. "I spent the night thinking about this—about us—and I realized a few things." Cal's heart quickened. "Yes?" he said levelly.

"I don't know how I feel about you," she said slowly. His eyes dimmed. It was hardly the declaration he hoped for. "But I feel something," she explained. "I just can't think about it yet." She moved toward him. "There's something I need you to do for me before I can, something I need to know, and I'm trusting you to be honest about what you find out."

"What is it?"

"Find out what happened to Jack."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Let me know what you think, please!**

Ted steered Jack toward a waiting group of men. They were dressed simply, though neatly. Most had patches on their pants, and their shirts were thin from numerous washings. At their approach conversation ceased. "Fellas, this is Jack Dawson, an old friend of mine," he said. Several of the men nodded. A tall, red-haired man at the front of the group stepped forward and offered his hand. "I'm Seamus Costigan," he said; he spoke with a thick Irish accent. "Welcome to the project."

"Is that the right word for it?" Jack asked, releasing his hand. Seamus shrugged. "It's as good a word as any," he replied. "Seamus, why don't you take Jack around and tell him more about what we're doing," Ted suggested. "I've got some calls I need to make."

"Aye." Seamus turned to the others. "You all have your assignments," he said. He nodded at a fresh-faced man with black hair. "Keep 'em in line, O'Brian." O'Brian gave an exaggerated salute and turned to leave, followed by the rest of the men. "What are their assignments?" Jack asked, falling into step with Seamus. They turned down a long hallway with a staircase at the end. "Most of 'em are working on rounding up other workers who would benefit from our project, but others have more specialized tasks," Seamus explained. "It's best you don't know too much right off." Jack couldn't help but notice the way Seamus avoided meeting his eyes. "What you'll be working on is down here," he went on. As they neared the bottom step the sound of type keys clicking and clacking began to fill the air. "This is where the speeches and pamphlets get written." They stepped into a large room. Desks filled the space near the walls. A printing press stood in the middle. The windows were covered over with paper; bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling provided the only light. Jack was intrigued by the almost equal mixture of men and women.

"I'm not a writer," Jack said. "I'm not sure if Ted—"

"Oh, you won't be writing," Seamus said. "You'll be approving the speeches. Ted said you were good with words, good at talkin to a crowd, so it's your job to make sure the speeches they write for you sound like something you'd say." Seeing the apprehension in Jack's face he added, "It's really not that hard once you've been at it a few days. You just read through whatever one of the writers hands you, and you put whatever doesn't sound right into your own words."

"Seems like a lot of unnecessary work," Jack said slowly, letting his eyes take in everything. Two men in shabby suits with rolled-up sleeves were operating the printing press. A pale man with glasses sat at the desk nearest them; he was typing furiously. At the next desk sat a young woman with red hair; her mouth was a thin line. She typed a few letters and then sat back, scowling at the typewriter, as if it were refusing to divulge secrets. Jack's heart skipped a beat. Tightening his jaw, he took a deep breath. Her hair wasn't the right shade of red, and she had freckles. Her hands were small, the fingers short and plump. _What were you expecting?_ he asked himself. _She's gone. _Seamus called the skinny man with glasses, whose name was Branwell, over, but Jack hear nothing either of them said. His ears were filled with Rose's voice.

_Jack! This is where we first met. _

A lump formed in his throat. His hands closed around empty air.

…

Stephens laid a folded newspaper on Cal's desk. "I believe it's customary to eat breakfast sir," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. Cal, not looking up from the stack of papers in front of him, muttered an unintelligible reply. "Well, it is your decision," Stephens said. "You're having luncheon with Mr. West today."

"Today?" Cal said, still not looking up.

"Yes sir. You're to discuss the terms for purchasing a controlling interest in West and Watford Ships."

Cal pursed his lips. Sighing, he pushed the papers aside. "I'd forgotten," he said. It seemed like a year had passed since the date was made, but it had only been two days. So much had happened since then, ending with Rose's bizarre request. It was all he thought about all night. What could have prompted this? After all this time, why did she want to know now? And was there to find out? He wasn't on the _Carpathia_. If he had been, he would have been tossed in with the other steerage passengers, and they would have found each other. Unless, that is, he decided he'd rather not commit himself to Rose, but Cal knew that was just wishful thinking. Jack would never have left her voluntarily; that had been made abundantly clear. The only alternative was that he died, drowned or frozen in the icy water, a fact he thought Rose had made peace with. She always seemed to have mourned and moved beyond it, but now Cal realized his view of the situation was horribly limited. Rose had stored her grief deep inside herself, burying what she couldn't bring herself to move beyond.

Stephens' voice rose. "Sir?"

"What?"

"I said, you might want to think about changing into a new suit. That one's rather wrinkled."

Cal looked down at himself. He was still in the suit from the day before. "Yes," he said, smoothing his rumpled shirt. "I think I'll go home and change."

"Perhaps have cup of coffee and eat a little breakfast while you're there," Stephens suggested. "The luncheon's at three. It's only nine. You don't want to arrive glassy-eyed with hunger."

Cal grabbed his hat and walking stick. "If there are any calls from my family say I'm touring the new facility. If anyone else calls, just tell them I'll be back this afternoon."

"And if Miss Dawson calls?"

Cal couldn't help but smile at the mention of Rose. "Tell her I'm at home," he said. "She'll decide from there."

"Very good, sir."

"Oh, and Stephens, put in a call to the White Star Line. I want a copy of the survivor list from the _Titanic_ and a copy of every report on it they have. Anything about survivors who weren't put in with the others, who were kept somewhere else, I want to see it. Anything they wouldn't ordinarily give to the public, I want to see."

….

Rose slammed the drawer shut with a weary sigh. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead; her dress clung to her skin like a strangling hand. It was barely noon. She didn't want to think about how hot it would be at five. As she turned to walk away she was struck by a sharp pain just below her stomach. She sucked in her breath. Feeling the eyes of the others on her, she hurried back to her desk, ignoring the pain.

Breathing deeply and slowly, she willed herself to concentrate on the stack of typing in front of her. At least five of the letters had to be finished by two, and she had been "strongly encouraged" to finish the rest before leaving for the night, which would never happen if she didn't manage to get herself under control. Soon the soothing _click-clack_ of type keys drove everything from her mind but the meaningless bunches of letters she was converting from one form into another. The pain receded, little by little, until she barely remembered it had happened.

She jumped at the shrill ringing of the phone at her elbow. She picked up the receiver with one hand and kept typing with the other. "Yes?" she said, cradling the receiver between her shoulder and head.

Cal's voice sounded tinny through the phone line. "I've started looking. I thought you might want to know."

Rose's eyes widened. "How did you get this number?" She wasn't sure if her shock came from the call itself or from his words.

"For a woman who asked me not twenty-four hours ago to find someone who hasn't been heard from in a decade you don't seem to have much faith in my ability to get information when I want it," Cal said drily.

Rose frowned. "That isn't what I meant." She glanced around the room; no-one was looking in her direction. "I don't suppose you've found anything yet."

"No. I should have the public reports within a day or so; the more confidential information may take a little longer, but I'll get it." Rose didn't need to see him to know he was radiating confidence. Now, more than ever, failure was even less of an option for him, a fact which, had she taken the time to consider it, might have made her rethink her decision to ask for his help given his feelings for her. But all she could see was the relentless pursuit he was capable of and her desire to believe he really was different.

"Thank you," she said. "I realize this is probably the last thing you want to do."

"I won't say I care very much what happened to him, but if knowing makes you happy, then I'll do it."

A small smile spread across Rose's face. "That's what I was hoping you would say."

"I doubt you'll like what we find out, Rose," Cal said. "I just hope you don't have impossible expectations." Rose heard the words left unsaid: _He isn't coming back. _

"I don't," she said steadily. "I just realized it was time I knew for certain."

….

"So, is this your first time working on something like this?" The question came from Arthur, a young man with wavy dark hair and bright grey eyes. He sat back in his chair, cigarette in hand. Jack sat across from him, hands draped loosely over the chair arms. "Yeah," he said. "I've done a lot of things, but nothing like this. Your, uh, project is more impressive than I realized."

Arthur laughed. "Most people think that when they first start out, but really it's small compared to the other groups. We only operate locally, and we have a lot less money than most of the other groups. We don't make the papers as often," Arthur explained. "So we're overlooked generally, though we did have a hand in the demonstrations at the Hockley plant a few years ago." Jack's ears perked up at the mention of Hockley. Arthur smiled as if remembering fond memories. "That was our first big event. It set the pattern, you could say, for what we've been doing since."

"What happened?" Jack asked, feigning nonchalance. It wasn't him. He was on the other side of the country.

"Well, the short version is a lot of the workers wanted a pay increase and some safety violations fixed. They sent a petition around, but it didn't get anything done. So, a few of them got together and decided to go see the boss, go straight to the top, you see, but one of them was a rat, and they were all fired." Arthur took a drag on his cigarette. "That's when we came in, and things got interesting. All you really need to know is, we won, which didn't make that sonofabitch Hockley too happy, though that was nothing compared to what could happen this time."

Jack leaned forward. "This time?"

Arthur nodded. "It's his company we're about to go against, one of his company's anyway. He's got a hand in every business in town, not to mention his interest in the family businesses back in Pittsburgh."

"You don't mean Hockley the steel tycoon?" Jack asked, hoping his voice didn't betray him. "What's he doin out here?"

"Came out about three or four years ago. Not sure why though. I heard he was messed up pretty bad in the War, but who wasn't?" Arthur chuckled bitterly. "I still have nightmares." He tapped his left knee. "There's a piece of shrapnel lodged in there, and when it rains it's like it just happened." Jack nodded in understanding, wishing not for the first time he had a similar story of his own to offer. He enlisted just after war was declared but, he never made it to Europe. He spent the War being sent from base to base along the East Coast, waiting to be shipped out, but for some inexplicable reason it never happened. He was always assigned kitchen duty, told he would be leaving in a matter of days, but when the time came he just went further up the coast. After the Armistice was signed, his commanding officer at the latest base clapped him on the back and pronounced him one of the lucky few who managed to stay in America because of clerical errors. Jack was torn between relief and guilt; hadn't he already survived against one set of impossible odds? Surviving a second time seemed like too much to ask for, especially since this time peeling potatoes was the most asked of him.

…..

_One Week Later_

Cal slipped into his dinner jacket. He cast one last glance in the mirror—not a hair out of place—before turning to leave. His new suit fit like a well-made glove, and it should, considering how much he paid for it. His shoes shone like black diamonds. Had he been able to whistle, he would have as he walked to the waiting car. It didn't even matter that he was about to spend the evening at the Mintons, surrounded by a dozen nouveau riche with the odd old money representative mixed in; nothing could dampen his good mood. He didn't even care his family were due to arrive in two days. The first reports from the White Star Line had taken longer to arrive than anticipated, but once they began trickling in, his suspicions were confirmed.

There was no record of Jack at all. He wasn't even listed as a passenger, which actually had surprised Cal at first, but then he remembered Jack's tale of winning his ticket in a game of poker. He wasn't on the survivor list either, though a postscript at the bottom of the letter accompanying it assured him that another, much shorter list would shortly follow. It contained the names of survivors who, for whatever reason, had been missed in the initial rounds. Most had avoided giving their names, but others were physically unable to give them. Cal tensed reading those words, but he told himself the chances of Jack's name appearing on the second list were too slim to even consider. Eight people had been pulled from the water, and so far six of them were accounted for. Rose hadn't told him very much about what happened after the ship finally went down, but he knew she was only able to survive because she found a door to float on. Who knew if Jack could even swim? Always an optimist where his own affairs where concerned, Cal took a decidedly more pessimistic view on matters concerning other people, especially those best left unfound.

He strolled into the party, a smile spreading across his face. Immediately he felt Daphne Minton's eyes on him. She watched him from across the room like a lioness eying a plump gazelle. Her father had begun making his fortune two years before she was born, and all she had ever known was a life of luxury and petting. Her head wasn't completely empty though; she knew just how tenuous her position was. Her father's millions had gotten them into good circles, but the best were, for the most part, still closed to her. It would take the right sort of husband to grant her the social standing she believed was her destiny. The thought that Cal could prefer anyone else never occurred to her. How could he? She was nineteen, with the best figure in Los Angeles, eyes like amethysts, hair that could have spun gold, and skin like fresh cream—at least, that's according to one of her admirers who fancied himself of a poetic bent.

A bright female voice burst out. "Caledon!"

Cal forced his smile to remain intact. "Mrs. Minton," he said warmly, moving to kiss her hand. "You're looking well."

"Don't tell me you've just been standing here," she said.

"I just arrived," he explained. "I was taking in your lovely ballroom."

Althea Minton's eyes brightened. "Isn't it just delightful? It turned out exactly as I hoped, though Stanley would insist on adding those horrid paintings." She indicated the nearest with a bend of her head. It was of a red-haired woman sitting astride a horse. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders in thick curls. Cal swallowed his surprise at the resemblance to Rose. "I've seen worse," he said, not taking his eyes off it.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: It's been a while, to put it mildly, but I will actually finish this story. If only because I have a few more ideas, and it isn't fair to let this one languish in limbo. I really like this idea, and this is the second time I've tried to write it. Please let me know what you think!**

Ted's heavy boots on the stairs broke the stillness of the empty building. Jack looked up, surprised to find someone else was still there. The room was dark save for the lamp on his desk. He leaned back and yawned, suddenly exhausted. "What're you still doing here?" Ted asked, dropping into the empty chair opposite the desk. "I stayed to work on this speech," Jack said. "Lost track of time, I guess."

"Dedication. I like that. Making any progress?"

Jack shrugged. "I think so. It sounds more like me now, though I gotta be honest, I've never made a speech like this before. I've never talked about this before, not in any way that would make someone think I actually knew what I was talking about."

"You'll do fine," Ted assured him. "And after a few more weeks down here, you _will_ know what you're talking about. Discussing the labor struggle will be as easy as talking about those drawings of yours."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jack laughed. Seeing Ted's expression he explained, "I'm not a political person. You know that."

Ted leaned forward. "Didya ever think maybe you should be?" He held up a hand. "Seriously. Think about it. Here you are, spent your whole life with nothing, didn't matter to anyone, treated like trash by anyone who was fortunate enough to have a little more than you, and for what? So they can feel superior? Superior how? For having money? That's no kind of basis for a hierarchy." He watched Jack's face, waiting for signs that his words had reached him, but Jack was buried too deep in his thoughts for anything to be seen. "I've mattered to people," he said finally, more to himself than to Ted.

"Well, of course," Ted said. "I wasn't being literal. But if you listen to guys like Hockley you'd think none of us meant anything-not as people, anyway." Jack tensed at the mention of Cal, but Ted was too engrossed in his speech to notice. "Sure, we're good for cheap labor," he continued, clenching his fist. "But that's it. We're nothing if we're not working, and we're barely anything when we are. There's a million of us to the one him. One man quits or dies, what's he care? There's always another to take his place-always a hungrier man who'll do what the last one wouldn't and be grateful for the privilege."

"Seems to me you've got it all figured out," Jack said, lighting a cigarette. "Why bother with all this?"

"Because," Ted replied passionately, "there _are_ a million of us to one of him. If we band together, we can bring these rich bastards to their knees!" Ted laughed dryly. "I can see my rhetoric has left you unmoved."

"It's not that," Jack said. "You know I agree with you. I am helping, aren't I?"

"Yeah, I guess you are."

Jack shrugged. "It's just..not who I am. My heart isn't in this the way yours is."

"You'd rather be drawing. Well, I don't blame you. Some days I wish I could leave all this behind."

"No, you don't," Jack said, shaking his head. "Be honest. This is your life."

"What's your life, then? The drawings?" Ted leaned back in his chair. "We never talk about you, you know. I don't even know what you've been doing all these years."

Jack shrugged. "Not much to tell. I bummed around, met some people, finally started selling some paintings. That's pretty much it."

...

"What an interesting painting," Cal said. "Where did your husband find it?"

"Interesting?" Mrs. Minton laughed. "It's terrible. I don't know how he expects me to entertain guests with such things on the walls. At least," she added, "he agreed to keep the more vulgar paintings in his study."

"Vulgar paintings?" Cal asked. "By the same artist?"

"All of these new things are. He's a new find of Stanley's. Some fellow no-one's ever heard of, but Stanley is sure he'll amount to something. I have my doubts, of course. I also have taste, something which it has become abundantly clear my dear husband does not." She caught Cal's eye. "I'm sure you can't be accused of that," she said.

"I'm flattered by your good opinion," Cal replied. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daphne making her way toward them. "Do you happen to remember the artist's name, by chance?"

"Davidson? Davison? Something like that."

"Dawson," Cal said, more to himself than to her.

"Perhaps. I'm sorry; I really don't remember. I'm sure he signed the bottom. Don't they usually?"

Cal started to reply but was cut off by Daphne. "Why, Caledon, there you are!" she cried. Her eyes sparkled up at him. "I was beginning to worry you weren't coming," she chided flirtatiously. Cal smiled and extended his hand. "I wouldn't dream of disappointing a lady," he said. Daphne's smile widened slightly. "Well, I shall forgive you."

"Is that Mrs. Randolph by the door?" Mrs. Minton asked, peering around Cal. "Why, I do believe it is. Excuse me, I must speak with her." As she went she caught Daphne's eye. Cal pretended not to notice their silent exchange. "It's been ages since I saw you," Daphne said. "You didn't come to our garden party last week."

"I had business to tend to. It couldn't be helped."

"I'm just thankful I don't have to spend my days dealing with all that dreadful nonsense," Daphne replied. She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "It all seems so boring, and what's more, I can't understand a word of it." She laughed and waited for the expected reaction, but it didn't come. Cal's mouth turned up slightly at the corner, but otherwise it was as if he hadn't even heard her. He didn't appear to see her either. The pink dress that perfectly accentuated her golden hair, the strand of diamonds around her throat, the neckline that was just cut low enough to titillate without being vulgar-he saw none of it. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the painting across the room. "I didn't know you were such a devotee of art," she said, turning to look at it.

"On occasion, when something strikes my eye," he said.

"It is a rather striking piece, isn't it?" she admitted. She stole a glance at him. "The woman is very beautiful. Even if she does have red hair."

A laugh escaped Cal's throat. "I don't see what's so wrong with red hair." Before she could reply he added, "If you'll excuse me. I'm just very curious about who painted it."

"But-" she began, but he was already moving across the room. Daphne's lower lip curled into a pout. "Ignore me, will you," she murmured. "Not forever."

Mr. Minton appeared at his side. "Ah, Caledon, admiring my new painting, I see." Cal nodded. "It's very interesting. It reminds me of some other work I saw once." His blood cooled at the sight of Jack's signature. _It can't be. _However, his social training did not fail him. "Where did you get it?" he asked casually.

"Interesting story about this piece," Mr. Minton said. "I bought it and a few others from a fellow in San Francisco. There was a park near our house, and once a week he would be there painting or drawing. Sometime he brought finished pieces and sold them. I walked past him a hundred times, and each time I stopped to talk. He wouldn't tell me much about his work, but he was willing to sell some of it. Actually," he added, "at first he wasn't willing to sell that one or one of the others I have, but eventually I offered enough money to entice him. He wanted to leave San Francisco, and he didn't have quite enough," Mr. Minton explained.

"Where was he planning to go?"

"He didn't know," Mr. Minton said with a laugh. "He just said it was time for him to move on. Would you like to see the other paintings?"

"Yes," Cal said distantly. His mind raced. "I would like to see them."

...

"I'll see you tomorrow," Ted called. Jack waved and turned the corner. He plunged his hands into his pockets and began to whistle. Soon his steps fell in time to the beat. It was nearly ten, but, he was pleased to see, the streets were still far from empty. A cool breeze blew his hair back. The conditions were perfect for his favorite kind of walk: a long one with no destination in mind. Without noticing, he began whistling "Come Josephine."

...

The strains of a familiar tune reached Rose's ears, but it was too faint to make out. She slowed her step, hoping it would come closer. It did. A smile spread across her face as she recognized the song. "That's odd," she said to herself. She hummed softly, in time with the whistling. Suddenly a sharp pain seized her; she sucked in her breath. It was as if a knife had been plunged into her lower abdomen. She pitched forward, grabbing a lamppost for support. "Goddamnit," she hissed. "Not now."

...

The sight of the woman clutching the lamppost stopped Jack mid-note. "Are you alright?" he asked, slowly moving closer. "I'm fine," she said in a voice thick with tension. "Really. There's no need to concern yourself. Thank you."

"You don't look fine," Jack said. He leaned down to see her face; a curtain of red curls obscured it. His heart skipped a beat. "Are you sure?"

"I'm certain." Rose pulled herself up, swallowing a groan. "There is nothing-" Her voice caught in her throat. "Wrong with me," she finished quietly. "I-I have to go, but thank you." She turned to leave, the pain forgotten. Jack reached for her. "Wait," he said. She pretended not to hear him. "Please," he said, reaching for her. "I want to make sure you'll be alright." His fingers brushed her arm, sending a shiver down her spine. "I'll be fine,"she said, her voice trembling.

Jack spoke without letting himself think any more. "Rose, I know when you're lying." Tears stung her eyes. "How could you?" she asked, turning to face him. But there was no use denying it any longer. It didn't make any sense, but there it was. Or rather, there he was. She let herself fall into his arms. Sobbing, she clung to him. "Jack. Jack. Jack," she chanted, choking up more each time she spoke. He hugged her tightly. "I can't believe it," he whispered. He buried his face in her curls. "This can't be happening."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Let me know what you think, please!**

There was too much to say and yet it seemed like they couldn't say enough. "What have you been doing all of this time?" Rose asked. "Why didn't I find you with the other survivors?"

"I wasn't with them," he explained. "I was unconscious for over a week after we finally got to New York. When the boats started coming back I was pretty close to bein dead. I could feel it. But somehow I managed to swim over to one, or really it was more like kinda moving my arms while I floated toward them. One of the passengers panicked and hit me with an oar when I finally made it close enough to reach for help. I couldn't really talk; my voice just didn't work anymore. When I woke up I was in a hospital."

"Why wasn't your name put on the list?"

"It was," Jack said, puzzled. "The day I woke up some White Star Line guys came and asked who I was." He chuckled. "They got upset when they couldn't find a recording of me buying a ticket. Since then I've just been doin what I always did, only now I occasionally make a whole dollar off my drawings." Rose studied the tabletop, frowning. "What's wrong?" he asked, leaning forward and placing his hand over hers.

"You didn't look for me?"

"I-" Jack's shoulders slumped. "Your name wasn't on the list, and your mother-"

"I used yours-Wait. What? My mother?"

"She told me you were dead," Jack said quietly. "She had a funeral for you. I went. Well, I stood outside. I kinda lurked around your house for a bit," he admitted. "I just couldn't believe you were..."

"You know, I never think about what it must be like for her, thinking that all these years," Rose said. "To be honest, I haven't thought about her in years." A shadow crossed her face. "I'm a terrible person."

"No. You aren't. You just did what you had to do."

"And I never stopped," she said solemnly. "What do I have to be afraid of now?"

"Then maybe it's time you let her know," Jack said. Rose nodded, her eyes distant. The promise she made to Cal's father wouldn't allow that. No-one was to know where she was; it would raise too many questions. Jack's lips on her hand broke her reverie. She couldn't help but smile as their eyes met. What did any of that matter now?

They couldn't take their eyes off each other. Looking away, even for a second, was a waste of time neither of them could bear, not with so much time to make up for. The hours ticked by, but neither of them noticed until Rose began to yawn. Jack's eyes suddenly began to itch. "It's late," he said.

"I have to work tomorrow," Rose said, annoyed by the prospect.

"Me too..." Their eyes met. "Do you want me to go?" he asked. Rose shook her head. "I want you to stay," she answered. She reached across the table and took his hand. "If you want to, that is." His fingers curled around hers. It was amazing how small her hand felt in his. For the first time in years he was conscious of the callouses on his fingertips. "I don't ever wanna go," he said.

They didn't need to say anything else. Smiling coyly, Rose led him to her bed. Jack raised an eyebrow. "We're going to sleep," she said, slipping out of her shoes. Another yawn escaped her throat. Jack shrugged out of his jacket, yawning as well. "Good," he said, lying down next to her. "I'm too tired for anything else." Rose couldn't help but chuckle as she curled up against him. "I'll bet," she said, closing her eyes. "Just you wait," he replied, putting an arm around her. He yawned again. "Just wait until morning."

"We should wait," she said, her voice already thick with sleep. "It's better to wait...after all this time..."

...

Rose awoke with a groan. The pain was back and worse than before. Squeezing her eyes shut, she snuggled closer to Jack, hoping to somehow ignore it. His eyes fluttered open. "Hey," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "You know," he said, as her head settled on his shoulder. "I dreamed about what it would be like to fall asleep holding you so many times." His lips brushed her forehead, sending a warm spark through her. For a moment the pain was forgotten. "But it's so much better than I ever imagined."

Rose hoped her face didn't betray the ache coursing through her body. "It's hard to imagine how I ever slept without you," she said, looking into his eyes. "Some nights I pretended you were with me. I told myself the blanket was your arms, and I wrapped it as tightly as I could."

"This is crazy," Jack said. "We just find each other on the street after all this time?" Rose laughed. "I can't believe it really happened," she said. "I'm a little afraid I'll wake up tomorrow, and it will have been a dream." Jack cupped her face with one hand. "It isn't a dream." He kissed her. She curled an arm around his neck and deepened the kiss. They moved in unision, shifting their bodies to allow better access. Jack groaned softly as he felt Rose's dress slip up her legs. "Do you know what else I dreamed about?" she whispered.

"Tell me," he said, his lips brushing her neck. Rose tried to reply, but a groan of pain was all that came out. A thick, sharp ache radiated from her abdomen. Jack drew back and studied her face with concern filled eyes. "Are you alright?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." He touched her cheek. "You're pale." She pulled him down into another kiss. "I'm fine."

"You said that earlier," he said. "I just forgot. I got distracted. What's wrong?" He moved so he was sitting next to her. She avoided his eyes, willing her face not to betray the pain she felt any further. Wrapping an arm around her, he said, "Rose, just tell me. I can't help if you don't tell me." She let herself sink against him. His shirt was soft against her cheek. His arm tightened around her. A familiar warmth spread through her; it was, she realized after a moment, the feeling of safety. "I have this pain sometimes," she said, pressing her hand over the spot where it always began. "It isn't anything I can't handle."

"For how long?"

"A few weeks? A month or two, maybe?" She grasped for an air of nonchalance. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"You don't know that. Rose, you can't ignore something like that. It could be serious. People don't just walk around in pain for no reason." Seeing her expression he added, "I don't want something to happen to you-not ever, but especially not now, not after I just found you again." He kissed her gently. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"So, you'll see a doctor about this?"

"Alright."

Jack kissed her again. "Good," he said.

It didn't take long for him to drift off again. Rose lay in his arms, watching as he slept. He was so peaceful. She wondered if he ever had difficulty falling asleep, if fears and doubts ever kept him awake all night. She steeled herself against a fresh burst of pain. Fear kept her from finding out why it happened, but she couldn't tell him that, not when she couldn't admit it to herself.

...

Rose stretched and opened her eyes; something was wrong. The usual clang of the alarm clock waas missing, but even more confusing was how empty the bed felt. "I'll clean up the mess in your kitchen," Jack said as he came in carrying a plate of pancakes. She watched in amazement as he settled onto the bed next to her. "It's not that bad, though," he added. "I'm pretty good at these." A smile spread across her face; happiness bubbled up from within her like she had never known. "You're still here," she said. Jack grinned. "Of course," he said. "Now, try these."

"They're delicious!" Rose cried. Jack laughed. "I mean it," she said. "Mine never turn out this well."

"I'll teach you," he offered.

"Yes, teach me to cook like a man," Rose said in a poor attempt at a hick accent. Jack opened his mouth to retort, but he burst into laughter. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're just so cute."

"I don't appreciate that," Rose said haughtily. Taking one last bite she set the plate on the bedside table. "I'll thank you not to mock me in my own home, Mr. Dawson." Jack's gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips. "Will you, Miss _Dawson_?" he said, slowly moving closer. Rose's heart began beating faster. "Indeed," she replied. As their lips met she said, "I'm late for work."

"So am I."

"We shouldn't let ourselves be any later." But she pulled him closer anyway. She marveled at how soft his hair was between her fingers. Their kisses left her breathless. Before she knew it they were lying down, tangled in each other's arms. Jack's lips moved across her throat. "You weren't exaggerating when you said wait until morning," she teased. She shivered as Jack began gently tugging her dress from her shoulders. "That was certainly quick," she said. He kissed her hungrily. "Less buttons this time," he said. "And I'm not so nervous," he added. Giggling, she slipped the dress off and tossed it to the floor. The look in Jack's eyes made her cheeks burn.

"Jack-" A knocking at the door cut her off. "Ignore it," she said. "They'll go away." The knocking continued, and despite their best efforts to ignore it, they could not. Jack groaned in frustration. "They're not going away," he said. Rose moved to get up. "No, no, no," he said. "You stay here. I'll see who it is." He kissed her again. "I don't want to have to get you back outta that dress." Rose watched him go with a sigh.

A moment later, she leapt to her feet, the haze of desire shattered. There was only one person who would be at her door at 10 a.m. "Jack, wait," she called, quickly shrugging into a robe. It was too late.

Jack and Cal eyed each other warily, each waiting for the other to move first. They turned when Rose entered the room, which only escalated the tension. "What in the hell's he doing here?" Jack demanded, moving to block Cal's view of her. Cal's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes hardened at the sight of Rose, her hair tumbling down her back in tangled curls and holding a robe closed over her obviously nude body. His gaze moved to Jack, who glared at him, stone-faced. "Of course," he said. Stepping past Jack, he trained his eyes on Rose. "I suppose you didn't need me after all."


End file.
